


The Bright Flames in the North

by isasolan



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Brother-Sister Relationships, Brothers, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Sibling Love, Telepathic Bond, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2013-11-27
Packaged: 2018-01-02 20:14:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isasolan/pseuds/isasolan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finrod and Galadriel witness the loss of their brothers in the Sudden Flame.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bright Flames in the North

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted/rescued from tumblr (with some editing).
> 
> I actually spent a lot of time wondering what language Finrod would be thinking in at this stage of the First Age, and in what language he would communicate with his siblings in thought and out loud in the extremely intimate settings of this fic. Based on my own experiences with languages/countries, I ended up chosing Quenya.

When the sentries come find him with news of the dire brightness in the North, he is already in full armour, anguished, and afraid.

 

He sensed the distress of his brothers just as plainly as if he were there with them. As he should have been. He heard them, too, and perhaps that was the dreariest. _How can we defeat fire_ , Angaráto cried in his head. _We can_ , Aikanáro said, _and we will._

 

He thinks of breaking contact as he rides North, reckless and mad with with grief, but he can not bear not knowing. He hears them, again and again, panicking and shouting, and giving commands that contradict the other.

 

And then he hears Angaráto scream. The horse nearly throws him over when he cries out himself. He clings to its neck numbly, and realises the wetness of the mane comes from his own tears. _Aikanáro, stop, stop_ , he begs, though he knows his brothers have not the skill to heed him.

 

And then he hears nothing more.

 

* * *

 

Celeborn finds her in the spear-room, armed like a soldier, and braiding her hair furiously. Warrior braids. His heart sinks.

 

"What are you doing?!"

 

She has a golden shield at her feet with her father's sigil engraved in silver, the only weapon from Aman he has seen her wield. But the sword fastened to her waist is not Menegroth-made; a long, sharp blade so bright it glows as a flame in the darkened cellar. That too came from the West, and in four hundred years Celeborn never knew. _What else does she not tell me_ , he thinks in dismay. As he so very often does.

 

"You will not stop me," she says absently as she finishes the third braid. Her hair looks tamed and dimmed, and that is no less frightening than the steel in her voice.

 

"Galadriel..." he tries to reason, in vain.

 

"Today I am Artanis. The only daughter of Finarfin, and the only hope of my brothers."

 

 _You are also my wife_ , he thinks, but knows it is not the time to say it, not when her mind is in the North. "We will ride together," he offers, and thanks the stars when she does not object. He would have followed anyway. He would convince Thingol later. Or rather, he would not tell him at all.

 

He is choosing his own armour when he hears her cry out. A dreadful cry that rocks the cavern and bends the stones to a groan. She drops to the ground on one knee.

 

He curses her power and rushes to hold her. She goes limp in his arms, eyes frantic with sights he cannot see. He brings her to bed in full armour, and removes the breast plate so she can at least breathe. She does not seem to be aware of him until he attempts to undo the terrible braids.

 

"Don't you dare," she croaks, but she has not the strength to move her body. It is so pitiful he does not insist, and lies at her side for the longest hours he has ever lived.

 

She sits up in the middle of the afternoon with another scream.

 

"Findaráto!" Her brother's name in the Cursed Tongue. "Retreat, you fool! The pass is lost! You will never breach it!" She stares ahead as fiercely as if she were having a true conversation with him, and Celeborn guesses that she is. "They are lost! Retreat! Save yourself!"

 

Her fists close and she beats the bed in anger. "The fool," she growls and looks straight into Celeborn's eyes, "He thinks he can break contact with me!"

 

Those words she spoke in the tongue of Doriath, and he realises this comment was meant for him. Finrod must have shut her from his mind, a feat few can accomplish. She closes her eyes, and Celeborn thinks she will fall back to the bed into another thought-darkness, but instead she moves forward, into his arms.

 

"Hold me," she pleads. "I do not want to be alone when I see him killed."

 

Celeborn wraps his arms around her fiercely, and knows from the tension of her shoulders that she is seeing her brother again, despite his reluctance.

 

"Never, Ingoldo, never," she whispers as Celeborn rocks her in his arms. "Ai..."

 

He thinks it over then. The golden King of Nargothrond, fallen with his brothers. His kin by marriage, and the kindest. He stifles his own grief to brace himself for hers. Yet the sob catches in her throat and she pulls back with a gasp.

 

"The Edain! Barahir!"

 

Her eyes shine again, a brightness to behold on their own, though her sight is still in the North. Joy and relief wash over her face, little by little, and Celeborn breathes again.

 

"He is saved! He is saved! He retreats unharmed!" she tells him, her voice wavering as her eyes focus on him once more. She has this way of clinging to him like a coiling vine to a tree. He relishes the closeness, and presses his head against hers. "But at what cost, Celeborn? He now has met his Doom."

 

* * *

 

 

Thingol refuses, naturally, to let her ride to the end of the Girdle. Her brother is welcome in Doriath, the King says, and he may enter the realm to see his sister, if he so wishes. She does not bother explaining the destruction of his army, and the haste with which they rode South to safety. Sometimes she wonders if Thingol is aware that he too lives in Beleriand. She nods coldly, and does not meet Melian's eyes.

 

Celeborn rides with her when she asks him to, armed to his teeth. She brings a hunting knife, no more. The shield and sword she has put away, perhaps forever. They sicken her now, but in that moment of madness riding to battle was all she could devise.

 

Finrod is at the edge of the forest where Melian's power fades, waiting, and wearied. Artanis had prepared herself for the sight, but her brother soaked in blood and slashed open is no easier to bear than in her mind. His golden hair drips of crimson and the bloodied locks fall upon his forehead. The fingers of his left hand are flesh, raw and red. A long gash tears his chest in blackened wounds. But he stands nonetheless, already mending his own body with what little strength remains in him.

 

His ten companions, too, are in a pitiful state. She briefly recognises Edrahil, whose arm is broken. Ten loyal men, who smile with relief as Artanis slides from the shadows and embraces her brother. She feels the blood soaking her dress, and it reminds her of another time, of another dreadful nightmare.

 

“They died,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. Never mind the ban of Quenya. “They died and I was too late.”

 

She has not realised she is holding back her sobs until then. She did not cry with Celeborn. She did not cry alone. But there, in Finrod’s bloodied arms, she cries at last. Her brother does not hide his own weeping. Amidst her own sorrow, the immensity of his grief frightens her, if he loses his restraint thus in front of his men. But they fought and nearly died with him, she knows. Restraint is absurd.

 

“I should have been with them,” he mumbles. “I should have saved them.”

 

“Nay, my love.” She would stroke his hair, were it not stiff with blood. “No one could save them, not when they rode like that.” Would that she believed her own words.

 

“But my place was in the North, with them, defending my people, not in... not in...the safety... of...”

 

“Shh,” she says, and cries harder because his thoughts echoing hers is a grief she cannot bear. At night she calls herself a craven. It does not surprise her to hear Findaráto calls himself one too.

 

“Did you see Artaresto...? I promised Angaráto I would protect him... before he, he..”

 

He needs not finish for Artanis to know what he means. It pains her to see his eloquence gone, the most poignant sign of his weakened body.

 

“He lives, and holds the pass. He is strong," she tells him at once, pressing against him. The children are safe, too. Yet she dares not wonder for how long their nephew will prevail.

 

“I must ride North and help him, but I... c-”

 

“You cannot ride back North in this state, brother, and you know it. You need to rest, you need to recover. Please! You were returned to us.”

 

She lowers her hands to his unharmed fingers where he bears no ring. _Why did you swear,_ she wants to ask _. Why did you do that. Why give him our father’s ring_ _._ But she knows the answer. His ten men do, too.

 

It was the price of life. A price the other two brothers never had the chance to pay.

 

She weeps in his arms for what seems hours, until Celeborn tears them apart. She would resist, but her brother is already staggering in pain. “I will come see you,” she promises as she sees him to his horse. He still needs help to sit astride.

 

“Not until the roads are safe,” he says as he kisses her face, his bloodied lips staining her skin red. “You are all I have left.”

 

“You are all I have left,” she echoes, but when they ride away, she flings herself into Celeborn’s arms in dismay.


End file.
